


i get by

by sclerant (rufusrant)



Series: quarantine food [2]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mild Smut, Quarantine, hahahahahahaha, starrison, tHERE WERE 728 CASES IN MY COUNTRY TODAY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23688946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufusrant/pseuds/sclerant
Summary: George and Ringo run out of condoms.
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Series: quarantine food [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705906
Comments: 23
Kudos: 42





	i get by

It’s a whole new record. They get to it nary five minutes into the movie, phone screen slipping into their sheets. 

George grins releasing Ringo’s neck. “We’re gonna miss the good bits.” 

“This _is_ the good bit,” Ringo rasps, surging back up against him. He squirms hiking his shirt up to give George room to roam—

A rustle. The tissue box on the bedside flips over. The black one does too. George hisses as pushes up and inches closer, Ringo steadfastly caged between his legs. The drawer rattles and clacks and the movie screams from where it’s shrouded in the blanket. 

There’s nothing. George pulls his hand out.

“What,” Ringo turns to look. “What’s wrong?”

_“We’re out of condoms!—”_

~

They pause the movie. George straps on his mask and cannonballs into the car before running back in to put on pants. Ringo, blanket over his nose, chases him down at the door with an armful of totes. 

George groans. “Already?” 

“I sent you a list. I might’ve forgotten a thing or two, so I’ll check and then I’ll text ye again.”

“Why don’t ya jus’ come with me? You can sit in the car!”

“Who’s gonna check what we need then??”

At least Ringo kisses him before sending him to war. Tesco isn’t very crowded, but everyone is very panicked. Store workers run left and right pleading with people to calm. A mob flocks the cashier in mass despite the floor markers. Trolleys collide and crash at every corner. George spritzes sanitiser on the handles of an empty one and prays that he’ll keep all his limbs. 

Ringo’s list is much longer this time. George feels a duteous swell of pride. All his life he’d had to trust five other people to leave him enough food, and now Ringo was depending on him to feed them both. 

So he does. It goes better than he expects— he grabs boxes of tea, hauls in a fat bag of rice, and gets his pick of the eggs as a tired employee restocks the shelf. And no one’s even _touched_ the spices. George grins wide as he sweeps a good lot into the cart, along with enough Durex for a plantation. 

His phone pings when he gets to the loo roll aisle. A bloke’s using his newly-acquired pack as a shield against a granny and her cane. 

_Thursday, 17.32_

**Ritchie:** cross off TP we have enough

THANK GOD FUCK YES. He walks away free. Another ping. 

  
  


_Thursday, 17.33_

**Ritchie:** get steaks

parsley

and we need pet food 

**Me:** already???

**Ritchie:** yes and get the RED pack for tiger 🐶🐶🐶🐶

R E D 

**Me:** 👌👌👌👌👌👌👌👌🍆👌👌👌

ooPs

**Ritchie:** JUST GET IT AND COME BACK

Ringo then attaches a delectable photo of his arse. George dashes down the whole length of the market in reignited glee and burns skid tracks into the floor. He snatches Corky’s stuff easy-peasy and—

“Oh fuck, sorry,” George says, frazzled. He makes to steer out and stops dead right there. Paul stares at him shock-eyed over their collided carts. The folds in his mask indicate a widening mouth. 

“Geo!” Paul leans over his trolley in excitement. George jostles back from the clang they make. “No fuckin’ way!”

“What’re you doin’ here?” George asks. Of course he means well, but it comes out gruff. If Paul and John hadn’t secretly moved (or divorced) it would’ve taken an hour to get to _this_ market. He was betting on the latter.

“There was a… _case_ in our Tesco,” Paul shudders. Neither, then. “They had to close, y’know, to clean it up an’ all. John and I were there the day it happened!”

“Oh shit. You alright then?”

 _“I_ am,” Paul plucks a red sack of dog food off the shelf. “What ‘bout you, John?”

Paul slaps the fucking wrapped shoulder of the bloke behind him. Skintight leather John is suddenly this heavy-cardied man with gloves and a mask and winter boots wrapped in plastic bags. _And_ Paul’s fuckin’ Everton cap. George nearly shoves down his snort with his hand before he catches himself. He holds onto his cart.

“John??” 

“Yeah?”

“Nice hat!”

John glances upwards briefly. Paul chuckles as he takes another bag of dog chow. That’s the one. 

“Hey Macca, if ya can pass me one of those?”

“So how’re you doin’,” Paul flings the bag atop the rice. “And Ritchie? Corky? Tiger?”

“Oh we’re fine. ‘s jus’ that the other day we had to take Tiger to the vet—”

Trolleys crash. John’s jumped back with Paul’s elbow in tow.

“—because he ate out of the bin,” George says slowly. 

“Oh _dear,”_ Paul glares daggers at John. “Is he alright?” 

“In the pink.”

John gulps. Probably. It’s hard to tell with the mask. “We haven’t gotten Tim’s nosh,” he says quickly. He then fucks off. Paul’s stare crumples as it follows him out the aisle.

“That’s the fucking _frozen_ food, Lenny!” George shouts. 

“Bloody hell, sorry,” Paul steers his trolley away. “He’s jus’ really het up.”

George shrugs. “Everyone is.”

“I’m glad Tiger’s okay. An’, y’know, dogs can’t catch the virus...”

“Mmm, I’ve read that.”

“Aight.”

Paul reaches out to pat his shoulder, but hovers and draws back, apologetic. George nods. He feels his phone twitch against his legs. Oh, Ringo Ringo Ringo Ringo Ringo—

“Wait,” Paul says, even though he’s still here. “D’you wanna Netflix Party?”

“...what?”

“It’s this thing on Chrome, like, an’ it connects whatever you’re watching with friends’ accounts so you can all watch together,” he rambles. “An’ you can chat while it’s playin’! You can get Ritchie on it! Whaddaya say? Get the ol’ band back together?”

~

“ _‘—watch together’_ he says, and you discuss the thing while it’s playing,” George says, lining the eggs in the fridge. “He’s so fuckin’ lonely.”

Ringo chuckles. “John’s not doing ‘is job?”

“No. Oh, an’ you should’ve seen him— he was basically in a _hazmat_ suit while Macca was in his _pyjamas._ John tied BAGS on his own shoes. _”_

“Like a nurse??” Ringo lifts a sleeping Corky off the tea towels. “What the fuck. You should’ve snapped me one.”

“An’ show the whole store yer _bits?”_

Ringo grins filthily. He adjusts his blanket wrap and resumes heating the stove.

~

Survival mode had been necessary at the start of lockdown. Orders-in, McDonalds ketchup packs, instant ramen cups and tins of beans. When the reality that nothing was ending started settling in, George had recovered first. He picked fresh produce and returned arms laden to Ringo screaming for him to change his mask. He waited for the rice to cook and the water to boil. Corky received fish and Tiger had grown fond of chicken bites. He served every single meal on the table with the kettle on a coaster.

Ringo, however, insisted he could live off his beans. And that George needn’t steal his black card. It was a horrible row. Corky and Tiger backed away from their room and Ringo flung the car keys from the window. Tiger fetched it back the next day.

Now— bliss. Ringo, barefoot in the kitchen, hums Taylor Swift as he cuts vegetables. It’s already the nicest meal they’ve had in weeks.

George sets his laptop across them on the sheets and logs into his account. Lennon-McCartney have already sent a link and a picture of Martha on Paul’s knees. 

“She’s big,” Ringo remarks, balancing their dinner plates on his knees. 

“She’s old,” says George. As he takes his plate the screen lights up. 

**john:** sup

 **john:** so macca had some emergency work thing 

“We cooked fuckin’ steak!” Ringo exclaims. George grumbles as he leans over again.

**john:** he’s real sorry 

**geo:** blah its fine it cant be helped

 **john:** yes it can

 **john:** how bout tomorrow?

Ringo rests his chin on George’s shoulder. “Same time?” 

**geo:** same time?

 **john:** idk dude what time do you end work?

“Fucking hell,” George groans. 

“Bloody fuckin’ hell,” Ringo nudges deeper. His lips press wet on George’s neck and give him a shiver of sweetness, tinged with the scent of food. The laptop clicks shut as Ringo kisses him, grazes his belly with his rings. 

“Did you get the condoms?”

**Author's Note:**

> STAY. SAFE. THANKYO U


End file.
